


Violet

by Tinevisce



Series: V.I.B.G.Y.O.R [7]
Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinevisce/pseuds/Tinevisce
Summary: He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to hold his tears back and folded his hands in prayer. Dil halka ho jayega his mother had advised: so, he offered up the words that unfurled and rose from the sanctum-sanctorum of his heart.Help me find someone who will make me question the world’s right to turn without them. Help me find someone who sees the secrets of Life, Death and everything in between in me, just like you saw the Mahavidyas in Sati.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Series: V.I.B.G.Y.O.R [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686157
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	Violet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_Shouldnt_Be_Here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Shouldnt_Be_Here/gifts).



> So, tada, I guess: here it is! This was an absolute beast to write because I just felt so...blocked while I tried writing this. At the same time, I absolutely KNEW I had to get this out to complete my series.
> 
> Writing wise, I'm not proud of this one at all, I'm afraid...I totally believe in its *vision* and the things I wanted to say thematically through it. Unfortunately, not on board with how I went around executing it.
> 
> Ah well. I still do hope you enjoy it!

** VIOLET **

In the end, it was Gaurav’s kindness that completely undid Aman.

“Sorry, bro, I’m not into guys in that way. But, I’m sure _tujhe koi mil jayega-_ take care, yeah?”

A friendly pat on his shoulder, and Gaurav was gone. They had been alone in one of the myriad conference rooms their office had strewn all over in random corners; Aman was glad that the arctic chill of the corporate air conditioning managed to freeze the tears before they actually fell, flash-froze the lava erupting inside him into hard granite.

He wasn’t exactly sure how a creature of flesh and blood was supposed to draw breath with granite lungs, but he imagined it would be similar to how queer people could exist in this normal world.

How did Gaurav even figure it out anyway? He had been- meticulously careful in his interactions with the man; hadn’t allowed himself any touches, had never before allowed himself to be alone with him. Yet, evidently, he had given himself away _somehow_.

Aman’s heart was burning in the inferno of shame-panic-grief raging inside his chest; turning into a shrivelled, leaden ball that he knew would drag him down into fearful depths before long.

He tiredly dragged a hand over his face; reminded himself that spiralling whilst gainfully employed would be imminently more comfortable than having a meltdown without a source of income.

He got up from the cushy chair he had been sitting on; as he switched each of the lights off, the room grew darker by degrees until it was pitch-black.

Back at his desk, he ruthlessly beat the randomised datasets he had been working on into submission, choosing not to acknowledge the glances his colleagues traded behind his back.

(He felt each glance open up a smarting welt. Who knew that queer granite could bleed?)

* * *

Something deep in Aman’s chest throbbed the moment he saw the young man enter the bus.

Aman’s eyes followed him as he battled his way through the packed bus, and a different sensation blossomed in his gut: this was just desire.

A white shirt tucked into black slacks on a lithe frame, a faux-leather bag slung across his shoulders: there were a thousand others like him in the city; young men trying to eke out a living in a place that kept taking with the promise of giving it all back someday.

This one looked dangerously close to crashing as he somehow hung on for dear life while the bus sped on, a delicate quiver going through a body that was clearly just about ready to pass out at the nearest available surface.

Aman winced with him as the bus suddenly bounced on potholes, and then stood to offer his seat before he was even fully aware of what he was doing.

“Here, sit. You look like you need it”

He was only able to see a flash of five o’ clock shadow and a doe-eyed look of pure gratitude before the press of people closed ranks around him.

* * *

Sleep, when it finally came to him that night, brought with it a dull anxiety that bubbled inside his chest and throat denying him actual rest; when his mobile rang the morning after, there was a groggy headache throbbing behind his eyes.

“Hello?” He managed to rasp out.

“ _Beta, kaise ho? So rahein the kya?_ ” It was his father on the other end.

“ _Nahi,_ papa, _yoga kar raha tha_ ” That was the traditional answer he was supposed to give, a running gag between father and son, except this time enough of his frustration bled into his tone that it became something of a bark.

He blew out an exhausted breath as he heard his father get flustered and hand the phone to his mother. “ _Sab theek hai, beta? Abhi utha kya?_ ”

“ _Namaste, mummy_. _Haan, bas abhi utha_ ”

He could picture his mother sitting by the _tulsi manch_ in their courtyard, resplendent with a cup of tea this time of the morning. Hearing her voice made him desperately homesick, but even as he imagined coming back home to his family, the thought of dancing around the hetero normativity closed around his chest like a vice.

He hadn’t made a sound out loud, but apparently his mother sitting 800-odd kilometers away heard him anyway.

“ _Aaj Shivraatri hai, beta. Mandir hoke aa, dil halka ho jayega_ ”

* * *

He had been 8 years old when he saw the _Dakshayagya_ play out on-screen for the first time. He had spent the next two days sobbing until the accompanying stress-headache flared into a full-blown fever.

It had become something of a traditional tale in the family: _remember that time when Aman was so traumatised by Sati jumping into the fire that he cried himself into a fever?_

With the hypervigilance that all queer children use to dive between the lines, Aman had learned the first two lessons in conforming: men aren’t supposed to feel pain, and men _definitely_ aren’t supposed to feel pain for another man in pain.

His tears hadn’t been because of the fire and the violence, they had been for the tears Shiva had shed as he drew breath in a world Sati did not.

The present-day Aman, the adult who had begun to agree with his family’s spin on his childhood traumas; could feel the old, visceral grief surge into being in his chest as he cast his mind back towards the old memory.

He was standing outside one of the oldest Shiv temples in Delhi; the long, serpentine queue of decked-up girls and women keeping him from actually entering the complex. Unmarried girls come to pray for a husband like Shiva, their mothers come to pray for a son-in-law like Chandrashekar.

He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to hold his tears back and folded his hands in prayer. _Dil halka ho jayega_ his mother had advised: so, he offered up the words that unfurled and rose from the _sanctum-sanctorum_ of his heart.

 _Help me find someone who will make me question the world’s right to turn without them. Help me find someone who sees the secrets of Life, Death and everything in between in me, just like you saw the Mahavidyas in Sati_.

The giggles and happy chattering from the women around him ignited a flash of irritation. _You made me the way I am, and if_ they _can pray for a husband like you- my prayer had better at least be reaching you, even if you refuse to grant it._

_Give me a husband like you. Give my mother a son-in-law like you._

_Are you listen-_

Without warning, something crashed into him with the momentum of a vehicle, sending him flying to land painfully on his backside.

“Shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry!”

The stars hadn’t completely cleared from Aman’s eyes, but they snapped up to zero in on the idiotic _asshole_ of a man, simultaneously drew breath to verbally render the cretin down into screaming atoms, and-

Fuck.

The man’s eyes were _aglow_ with a light that seemed to pierce and strip away every layer, façade and mask until they looked at the naked core of him. Flustered in the way they hadn’t been in a very long time, Aman’s eyes broke the gaze, only to find _Ardhnareshwar_ smiling demurely from the man’s muscular forearm.

A forearm that came attached with a hand that was apparently stretched out to him. Aman reached out to grab it.

* * *

They ran through the cramped lanes of old Delhi from what seemed to be a mob baying for blood. Luckily for them, said mob seemed to mostly consist of overweight uncles so nobody actually caught up with them.

(It would occur to Aman much later in the day that humans had evolved to hunt game by making the poor animal run until its heart gave out, _homo sapiens_ didn’t _have_ to catch up with their prey)

Ten minutes later, Aman found himself gasping for breath inside a ramshackle _tapri_. Mr. No-Name was pressed up by his side; very solid, very sweaty and _very_ male.

The _Ardhnareshwar_ tattoo was covered by a sheen of perspiration.

“ _Kaun hai bey tu?_ ” Aman managed to wheez out amidst trying to keep his heart and lungs safely inside his ribcage.

“Kartik. Kartik Singh”

**Author's Note:**

> Violet- especially, that specific shade of amethyst- is what I always heavily associate with the energy I identify as Shiva. Calm, compassionate, meditative and peaceful. So that is Who I'm dedicating this piece primarily to: Shiva.
> 
> The allegory-lover in me was pleased as punch with Kartik's name being what it was because I could nicely put in my Shiva-skewed writing here. The TL;DR version of this whole thing could be seen as:  
> Aman prays for a husband like Shiva, so He sends Aman His Son (Kartik).
> 
> Thank you so much, everyone, for taking this journey with me. I have written fanfiction off-and-on for years, but I think this is perhaps one of the very few works that I actually finished. I can't begin to describe how fulfilling that feels: and I know I couldn't have completed it without the dopamine-rush-feedback-loop all of you got together and incited in me. :)


End file.
